Landscapes & Sonnets:  About

The landscapes and sonnets that follow were compiled over the many years I've traveled and painted through much of America and Europe, particularly Italy, France and England.  Most were painted en plein air, on-site, in the cool shade of Appalachian woodland or the sunny slopes of the Sicilian countryside.  

Most of my poetry is written while walking or making a pot of soup, the cadence of the steps, the chopping of celery syncing with the flow of words.

Offtimes when I paint, a line of verse pops into my mind like strokes of paint on my canvas.  I match it with sounds of rhyming words. 

My art and poetry interact; one begets the other or they dance in tandem, like a Tennesse Waltz. 



 & Sonnets

       by Jack Hannula

The  Creek at Warwoman Dell, Gerogia, 2011 c.

[ vi.] Your un-clad’ feet, they rest upon the timeless sand,

Your lissome feet so soft & richly tanned;

Upon your lap you rest your thin bronzed hand.

Above your head I spy a haloed band;

Now captured by my brush -a golden band

With colors lush, so gently spread & fanned

Like your auburn hair, your curls an ampersand

That mix & blend with this vast & wondrous land.

[ You, Twilight, jkh 2013 c. ]

The Prophet

[ I ]

I walked a long path that went to the mountains

Where children were playing around the old fountains,

Where old men were sitting along a gray wall,

And dozing & talking but none to each all,

But to prophets & kings, old David & Paul.

Their prayers were not answered, no nothing at all;

The prophet, their pleadings, did not he enthrall

For He had observed -mankind’s dismal fall.

[ ii ]

And women were sitting so deep in the shadows,

Some women were peering from high in the windows

That cast their grayed darkness aside to the meadows

Where cold winds were blowing from deep in God’s bellows

Near the calm waters where grows the sad willows.

Oh, what is the journey of women & fellows?

[ iii ]


So dark are their souls, so dense is god’s forest

Wander they to adventure –or just to now rest?

Dark are the colors that they now love  best

When deep in the forest where man is the guest

And there by an invite -Saint Peter’s behest.

[ iii ]

And near an old fountain some women are sewing

Across from the men who are saddened by knowing

About their short lives & where they’re now going

In flowing deep waters & winds that are blowing,

Across the green meadows where cows are now lowing;

Floating in cast skies or waters, a-rowing

-All now reaping what they’ve been a-sowing.

 [ Jkh 2013 c. ]

© Jack Hannula 2013